


Sherlock Approves

by Unovis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothing, M/M, Shaving, Sherlock's Coat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-27
Updated: 2010-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:11:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unovis/pseuds/Unovis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock approves of a number of things, including, mostly, John. Unfortunately it seems John has formed an irrational attachment.<br/>Repost to AO3 from September 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Approves

Sherlock shaves with a straight razor, when he finds it necessary, which he's pleased to note is less often than John does (+John mostly driven by routine). It's a Sheffield blade in a bone handle inlaid with a brass _S_. It belonged to his great-uncle Severn. There's no sentiment there: he'd watched Severn shave with it when he was a boy. When Severn died, he stole it from his effects. He thinks it looks stylish, he loves the long sweep of razor edge, the routine of its honing and care, and the feel of the knife at his jaw and throat. He thinks it unnerves John. Sherlock's taken to leaving the bathroom door open when he shaves.

He's not vain. He has a mirror. He can predict what people see. "Quality," said his long-gone father, and "economy" and "worth." Which he's considered, for investments leading to time and fuss saved. And ignored, for the pleasure of charging a half dozen overpriced and slightly vulgar (!pleasing fitting) shirts on Mycroft's card; and making Mycroft wince at his choice of suit; and using Mycroft's pointed gifts of ties and belts for purposes he knows would appall.

When John blocks him on the bottom step this morning and asks if he realizes his hands are shaking (-simple fatigue), he brushes past, raising five and a half answers (*invitation for John to shave him; +-worth blood loss), but settling for a dismissive shrug. He could go without shaving this morning. Has experience manipulating his razor while fatigued. (?effect of nicked lip or throat on witness to be re-interrogated/tea-source Mrs Hudson/John) (!Not John) He kicks the base of the bathroom door.

The nicked corner of his lip is painful and pink, swollen. The witness, a woman in her late 40s, secretary, unmarried, no pets, rarely touched by human hands (+?haircut; -long hair and fringe, ends self trimmed)—stares at his mouth. He touches his tongue to the cut and her lashes flutter; he upgrades her from witness to accomplice and presses the case home.

Lestrade looks at his mouth and frowns and (?personal memory; -insufficient data; +shaves worse than Sherlock even with _intentional_ cut) touches his own neck inside his collar. John stares at his mouth (!), looks away, looks back twice (?). Mrs Hudson clucks and brings up a pot of tea and biscuits. John says nothing, reads his laptop without looking again. Tea stings.

+++

Sherlock approves of his overcoat in all particulars.

If he didn't know better (!) he'd say that John had...

"Shoes. _Shoes_ , Sherlock. Are you listening at all?"

"Not to you." That John had formed an (! ~~unnatural~~ ; ?irrational) attachment...

"They were next the chair five minutes ago. I come back downstairs and they've vanished and you are the only one in the room. Where are they?"

"Admirable start. Think it through," he encourages. He considers the back of his gloved hand, make s a fist. No hope for it. (?absence of stimulant decreases desire+-inflames desire; -inconclusive) Either way, he's leaving John behind this time. Irritating. The stupid, stupid man.

"Where did you put my shoes?"

"Good, John. Very good." He picks up his coat from its hook behind the door (*bad for the coat) and leaves. Eight to ten minutes before John will find one shoe in the oven. Longer before he finds the other suspended outside the window from the latch. (-shoes thrown out window quickest; -shoes out window=angrier John) John curses behind him.

He approves of John in most particulars. Quality, economy, and worth. _And_ he speaks back to Mycroft. (?John+tie; !no; ?John+tie+[?red]suit=possibly; ?undamaged tie ?tie still in mortuary ?tie on bedpost ?whose bedpost =no current ties, wait for gift) Lestrade approves. Mrs Hudson approves. John has to stay. The cab feels incomplete without him.

The case is insipid, despite the mismatched heads. He follows through, regardless; leads Lestrade to Symon's wharf, and spends wet, frigid night hours waiting for their quarry. Lestrade stands vigil with him. Stands two feet away.

John would stand closer. John in the past month, since the Moriarty fiasco (@#!) has stood closer, body against his coat. Arm to its arm. Shoulder to its back. Nose to its collar… until Sherlock could feel the heat of him, through the wool. Could take the warmth (-no warmth tonight) and lean into it, giving John contact, giving himself…John.

He scowls at Lestrade. John (+touching; +pressing; + _smelling_ ; +looking), improbably (?insanely; ?futilely), is attracted to his coat.

The stupid, stupid man.

It wouldn't fit him.

It's Sherlock's coat. His particularly personally perfect coat.

He has little data on clothing fetishes of this sort. Internet searches, difficult to zero in on the proper key phrases, yield repulsive videos of men in suit jackets, white shirts, and ugly ties with wagging sausage-like privates underneath. Also a great number of men in shirts and ties naked above their socks. John does not wear black midlength socks. The only coats he can find are black leather dusters or tan trench coats. With boots or black socks. He snorts; his breath rises in gray vapor and Lestrade looks over. "Go home and go to bed. We've got this."

John is not tasteless or crude. Sherlock could not picture John in his homely socks (!*!*naked wrapped in his coat!*!*)

"There!" he tells Lestrade, who barks into his phone, and then they're running and officers are running ahead of them and taking all the fun.

Sherlock goes home.

John's found his shoes and gone out. Sherlock, chilled, resentful, alone, bundles himself in his shirtsleeves in his coat (*my coat) and curls up to sleep on the couch. When he wakes, his coat will smell like him, even more.

+++

Sherlock sleeps fully clothed. He gets cold. He has four pajama bottoms, no pajama jackets, two soft pairs of lounge pants that flop wide over his ankles, and an un-inventoried supply of neutral color T-shirts. They go missing and reappear randomly in the service wash. He suspects Mrs Hedge of practicing stain removal forensics on the vast range of specimens he submits.

He has three dressing gowns. They suit him. And he has an audience now, which is far more satisfying than swanning around his rooms alone, playing for the skull. Blue silk striped damask. Plum brocade. And the delightful, carefully preserved one from Mummy that she called "mouse" color. Plainest, most comforting, least likely to lose its sash. Hasn't worn it in front of Mrs Hudson or John, yet. The blue one catches John (!John)'s eye, like a string trailed in front of a cat.

He also sleeps, on occasion, in his suit. Or shirt. Or coat.

(-insufficient data) He wakes. To…scent of cold coffee and toast and hot tomato soup (*tinned; *John) And John. He pushes his nose into the crease between leather cushion and needlepoint pillow. (?angry John; ?angry John sounds like; ?angry John smells like; -coat really smells like Sherlock now; +wharf smell; ?quiet John=angry John)

"You can make your own lunch," says John.

(?disappointed John; -insufficient data) Sherlock stretches, arching his back, clutching the thick wool lapels, pointing his bare feet. "Tea?" he asks, into the leather.

"Make your own," says John, in the same tone of voice.

Sherlock sighs into the couch then rolls up to his feet. John's at the table, eating. Papers neatly removed to the carpet. (?slippers; ?John's shoes; ?angry John) John looks him over, carefully, in his John way. "Nice sleepwear."

Sherlock unwraps the coat, slowly, opening like wings (*my coat); shrugs his shoulders; lets it fall from his body to the couch, behind. John watches (!desire; !there), his gaze sliding around Sherlock's chest-waist-hips to follow the swath of tweed dark against the leather. He shakes out his arms. Pulls his shirt from his waistband (*purple one; !loose stitch on left cuff), begins to unbutton, from the neck. John's staring, now. "If Lestrade phones, remind him to take a footprint from Cleaver. I need a shower."

"Not your message machine," says John, absently. Watching Sherlock pick up his coat and walk out. "We're talking about the shoes," he calls after Sherlock. "And ditching me. And the case." (!John)

Too late, Sherlock realizes he could have left the coat behind. (?trap; ?tempted John= *!*!naked John in his coat*!*!; –insufficient data)

+++

Sherlock has a rule of thumb for shirts: ideally, at any one time, he owns eight. Six fine cotton of matching cut, replaced more or less annually, depending on Mycroft's carelessness; and two others that are different and may remain. The maker of the six may vary from year to year, but the collar, quality, and color selection do not. All are long sleeved with a button above the cuff. He rolls them up for work or warm weather. When he visits the family home, he searches out old clothes like old pictures to destroy. Now is the best time of his life.

(?Problem)  
He's clean, his hair is rough-toweled, and he's standing here in his boxers (!cold; -too long). He's standing on his strip of bedroom carpet, looking across his clothes folded on the bed to his mirror. The coat (*my coat) he should have hung up is draped across the pillows. (-no case; -no research; +eat+sleep+heal; ?John?coat?case) He can feel bruises and a scrape on his back he can't see, from being knocked across a coil of cable onto a cleat on the wharf. Bruised through his coat, which is not torn (-blood on shirt; ?jacket lining). The marks from the week before are nearly gone. The corner of his lip is still pink (-slow). He unfolds his left arm (+scars, fading; -scars, bad; ~~*three~~ *two; ?visible; !to Lestrade; !to John).

He picks up a gray T-shirt that blood won't harm further; before he puts it on, he looks again at his body, turning from side to side (+-?). And shrugs, and pulls the soft shirt over his head, and shakes out the heavier dark lounge pants and draws them up and over his hips (*sore ankle), and hesitates over socks. He's cold. He could climb back into his coat…into bed, if he shoves things aside a bit. But there's no need to burrow in here. There's a fire in the sitting room and he can order something hot delivered and enjoy (!John) company and search on the couch with his laptop. He puts on the blue dressing gown (-mouse; !John). He picks up his coat (-irrational) in his cold room; and he asks himself, slowly and deliberately in words and sentences, why he thought John would ever behave…(*!*!) (!-wrong question): why the idea of John, naked, in or out of his coat, _is of any interest at all._

+++

Sherlock's coat is a gift he bought himself. Two years ago. With money he accepted from a case. He was cold before he bought it and warm afterward; it was an ugly case at the end of an ugly year; and Lestrade told him it suited him (*"Showy bastard").

"…the courtesy to let me know. Colleague, remember? Sherlock?"

(?amusing; ?absurd; ?erotic)

"Sherlock?"

(?informative; ?+!)

"Sherlock!—I know you're awake."

The coat, obvious, available, is laid across his feet and John hasn't glanced at it twice. (+touching+pressing+close+ _outside+on the case_ ; ?protective; ?-?desire)

"You keep your distance here in the flat." (*7 times John[!] made contact [-accident;-handing tea/food/laundry/phone;-door] here: 3 medical; 1 sport[?idiot]tv; 1 anger[crossword-related]; 1 exit block; 1 unknown [?shoulder pat?humor/fear]; -inconclusive)

"What?" John thumps down in Sherlock's chair, closer to the couch; he can hear the leather compress. Can feel him, smell him (!John) there. "Can you please look at me when we're…talking?"

Sherlock keeps his eyes closed, fingers together under his chin. His back throbs, sore against the cushions. Distracting. "What do you have for pain?"

"What did you do?" The leather creaks (+heat; +body; +concern; -doctor) and then the cushions dip and he can feel John (*hip) leaning over him. He opens his eyes (!close) to see John frowning down at him. Hand on his shoulder, warm through the dressing gown John watches, hasn't touched before. (-not distance; +?challenge response; +medical) "Your back?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"You've been moving like a stiff all day. Sit up."

" Bruises, John, nothing serious. I fell." He puts a hand on John(!John)'s chest, to push him away. He's warm. His jumper rumples under Sherlock's palm. ( ) He leaves it there and John doesn't move.

"You don't ask me for painkillers for bruises. Up." So John can look at his back (-robe; -shirt)(!no).

"I'm twice the diagnostician of injuries…"

"Corpse, are you? Up, off."

He closes his eyes. "OxyContin and manicotti from Angelo's." He squeezes the cable knit between his fingers over layers of shirt and John. If John stays right there, in three moves (-+tucked vest) Sherlock could have his hand against his skin. If he wanted. (?=jumper)

"Paracetamol and ice." John puts his hand over Sherlock's. "And the bracciole." (?smiling)(!+touch)(!-medical).

"Morphine and Tiger Balm." He slides his hand down the cable to the side (#1), John's hand following. (jumper=!John) "And the combo 7." He's smiling, they're smiling, he knows without seeing. He spreads his fingers and pushes up (#2).

(?=coat; coat=warm; coat=skin; coat=showy bastard; coat=Sherlock)  
"I shouldn't have left you behind."

"All I'm saying," says John. (#3)  
(*my coat; *my!John)  
(*!*!hah*!*!)

+++


End file.
